


Safeguard to paradise

by Messallina



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Comfort, F/M, Hopeful Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 12:30:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5785393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Messallina/pseuds/Messallina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small misunderstanding, a musing about future, a story of what could be and of a hairbrush with a depiction of a singing bird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safeguard to paradise

"Perhaps it would be for the best if we continued tomorrow, my dear. “  
His voice was quiet and melodic as ever, with barely any hint of tiredness and frustration. However, the message was clear. Your performance is mediocre and I am displeased, as loud as if he had plainly shouted it at her.  
But she couldn’t let him see just how much his displeasure affects her. She had to maintain her facade. Summoning her most gracious smile Christine answered, trying her best to keep her tone polite.  
"You are quite right. I am a bit tired now, we will run through the aria on the morrow when I am well rested. Good night. "  
She even managed a small nod in his direction before retreating into her room.   
Only when the doors were barred and Erik was safely out of sight, only then her brave and unaffected facade crumbled into dust. Gritting her teeth she readied herself for bed, her movements uneven as she jerked the coverlet from the mattress. Christine determinately followed through her nightly rituals in a vain attempt to calm herself down, proceeding to sit on the chair in front of a vanity table.  
On the table, among every beauty product known to mankind, laid a hairbrush, beautiful thing with inlay on the backside depicting a small singing bird encircled by garlands of flowers with blooms in vibrant shades of red, violet, blue and pink.  
But Christine didn't pause to admire the precise work. She gripped the handle, her knuckles white from the pressure, and raised the brush to her hair. But instead of the gently weaving it through her dark tresses, she plucked at the knots and in her frustration only tangled them further.   
After one particularly painful tug, her patience snapped. With a strangled cry, she hurled the brush across the room. It hit a wall with a satisfying thump and clattered on the floor.   
The inlay was in shreds, flower garlands shattered to pieces and the little bird's shape became undistinguishable, for there was the impact strongest.   
Christine surveyed the scene and her seeming inability to do anything right today made tears well in her eyes. 

Erik sat at his piano, which was usual, but wasn't playing nor composing, which was something very unusual indeed. He was sitting there, staring at some very interesting point at the wall, lost in his thoughts. And where else could they be but on his angel. The aria they have been practicing earlier was quite hard to master, but even still she wasn't making the progress he knew she was capable of. Erik blamed it on the late hour, surely she was tired, after a day full of rehearsals in the opera. So he sent her to bed. It was a sensible thing to do so, wasn't it? How pleasantly she admitted to be a bit tired, he felt proud to notice and point it out first. And how prettily she smiled when she bid him good night. Oh, it would be all too easy to get used to such smiles.   
His quite reverie was however cut short by a sudden sound, startlingly similar to a sound an object makes when thrown at something. Erik wasted no more time analysing it and hurried to the doors leading to Christine's chamber.   
She jumped up when he entered, wide eyed and with something broken into pieces at her feet. That something proved to be the hairbrush he bought her last week as a gift for a wondrous performance. He thought she would like it, a thing as precious and delicate as she. She followed his gaze, saw sorrow fill it and felt like crying. Did she have to mess up everything today?

" I'm sorry I broke your gift.“ She offered quietly.   
"Tis nothing. Who would wish for a gift from a monster."   
"No! That’not-I liked it, but I was just angry and it was near my hand. I couldn't get my hair untangled, I flung it, it shattered-"  
Christine paused to take a breath but found no other words to say. What must he think of her now, he, who is always so dignified?

So she liked his gift after all? Relief washed through him followed immediately by concern.  
"But now you don't have anything to brush your pretty hair with!" He exclaimed.   
"I guess I don't.“ Christine answered with a smile ghosting her lips at his worries.   
Encouraged by that, Erik, without as much as a glance at her face, timidly offered.   
"I can help."  
Wonder filled her countenance and, he didn't dare to think that, but maybe it was joy what he saw in her gaze when he finally lifted his eyes from the shreds on the floor.  
Feeling brave, he extended one hand towards her in a silent invitation, unable to suppress a little shudder of excitement when he felt her little fingers curling in his palm without any hesitation on her part.  
Erik led her through the house back into the living room. There he seated her on the divan and disappeared.   
Mildly confused, Christine listened to a distant noise coming from the part of the house where he had his private chamber. What was he up to?  
But before all the possibilities could be sent reeling through her mind, he emerged once again. Victorious look adorned his face as he proudly showed Christine what treasure he went to find. A comb, simple and black, without any ornaments, but comb nonetheless.   
Erik, still grinning though it only twisted the mess of his face, crept behind the divan, carefully weighing each step, judging her reactions. But she only innocently gazed at him with no trace of disgust or abhorrence.

What course did his thought take and what it means for her? Wondered Christine, turning slightly, so she could look at him. Or rather, at his mask. She still felt lingering uneasiness where his face was concerned. It sometimes appeared to haunt her in her dreams, scowling, horrible, oh so horrible. And she couldn't turn away, couldn't close her eyes. But then she suddenly wasn't alone. A figure always emerged from the darkness, arms encircled her form, reassuring and calming. Christine didn't need to see his face to know it was him. He was tall, gaunt, threatening anyone and everyone who would try to hurt her. Her silent protector.   
The face which scared her so much before changed. But what a change it was! From inside of a cape's hood it stared at her, scowling no more. Christine no longer saw the thin yellow skin or the two black holes gaping like open wounds where nose ought to be. She only saw his eyes, sunken and dark as they were. And she wasn't afraid any longer. How could she be when there were only promises of music, passionate love and gentle adoration in those eyes? 

Those very eyes were now fixed at the crown of her head, noticing the way her dark tresses were tangled, immediately condoning in his mind how he would untangle them, while causing his darling as little discomfort as possible, were he permitted to do so. And, after all, why shouldn't he follow through? She had yet to reach out for the comb, to move at all. And so Erik grasped the brush more firmly as his hand descended into her hair.

Christine's reverie was cut short by a genre, barely noticeable caress. She held her breath for a moment before recognising the pull of a comb. Erik was brushing her hair! It was so unlike him, the gesture too simple, too intimate. But strangely pleasurable, definitely more than it ought to be. Not knowing what to make out of it, Christine decided to simply sit without comments and let him, her guardian, her angel, brush her hair.

How soft her dark tresses were, mused Erik, combing them gently. Christine seemed to bear no objections to his actions and as the time passed, he grew more sure of himself. Even to the point of touching her gingerly with his fingertips when the comb was too rough for a particular knot. 

After some time, Christine leaned back into his caressing hand and closed her eyes. It was in times like this that she questioned her convictions and wondered what it would be like to live in the house by the lake. Will there be moments like this, moments of happiness? Or, her lips formed a frown, more moments like the one that led to her shattering her hairbrush, an action she cannot bring herself to regret? Will the adoration disappear from his gaze when she will begin to bore him? Will he someday see her as the simple minded child she is, someone who can’t hold a candle to his genius?

Erik stared at the frown on her lips with increasing horror. His movements stilled as he presumed her expression is one of pain and not one caused by unpleasant thoughts about possible future.   
"Oh I am so sorry my dear, but the tangle, you see, it was very, uhm, tangled, yes, and I-I needed to untangle it, I am so sorry, it must have hurt, but you have to know I would never hurt you on purpose!"

"You didn't hurt me - you never have." Rushed Christine to reassure him.

Now Erik appeared genuinely puzzled.  
"But you frowned, it seemed safe to assume it was because I pulled too hard."

Christine's cheeks burned as she answered.   
"No, no, it was just, that, you know, before I... ehm, retired," Erik listened carefully as it all tumbled out of her at once, "I feared I displeased you. With my singing at the evening lesson. I didn't do it on purpose, I swear. I was just distracted, I guess. I always try my best to please you." 

"You have mistaken me my dear. I wasn't displeased, far from it. I am not sure you can ever displease me, " he trailed of, but with a quick snap he fixed his attention on her once more and continued.  
"It might be true, that your today's performance wasn't your best, but I thought you were just tired, hence I thought to sent you to bed."  
“I will try again tomorrow and I will do well.” Christine replied, matter-of-factly.  
“I have no doubts you will.” And was that a trace of amusement in his voice?   
No other words were exchanged as Erik continued gently combing her hair. He was happy. His little darling was sitting at his fingertips, no longer shunning him. She even looked as if she was enjoying his touch, ever so slightly leaning into him. How easy it was, to loose himself in thoughts! He could pretend Christine was his and this was regular occurrence. If only she'd accept his love. He would care for her, adore her! She would never cry, never have a reason to, not in the days filled with sunshine and laughter. Every moment would be like this!  
"Would it?" Christine felt thrilled, when Erik spoke, dismissing her previous hesitations she didn't dare to voice. It was only when he flinched, as if he touched a scorching steel, she realised he never meant to say it aloud.  
Foolish Erik! He must watch his mouth, lest he would scare his darling! He couldn't bear to even imagine the terror he would undoubtedly find in her face should she ever know of his innermost and very improper thoughts!   
Yet he couldn't help but notice the tender hopefulness in her voice. Would it matter now if she knew them? She already heard part of his dreams and didn't run screaming. Why not tell her everything?   
"Yes, my dear, it would. I've shunned the world, hid in darkness, yet with you at my side I am finding myself yearning for sunlight again. We will travel, I have the money needed, all across the globe. Just name the place! Have you ever been to Rome? And we simply must visit Vienna! And the gorges of Thaya in the spring! And every fine opera house, La Scala, Covent Garden, Metropolitan Opera, they would beg you to perform when the our road would take us near!"  
Christine closed her eyes, imagining what he spoke of in vivid details, her lips curving into a small smile. When Erik saw it, he laid a hand on her shoulder. How big was his surprise when he felt dainty fingers wrapping around his, entwining them together.  
"But sometimes," he continued, "when you would be tired of the spotlight, we will run away."  
"Where?"  
He couldn't suppress the shudder of excitement that she wanted to be involved in the creation of this story.  
"Wherever you would like."  
"North." Came her decisive answer.  
"Then north it is. We will buy a small cottage on the coast, where winds are ruffling manes of wild horses and white sea foam shatters against high cliffs."  
Taking her hand into his both, he lowered himself on the divan, beside her careful not to touch her further. But she surprised him by gently edging nearer and nearer, until she was tucked into his side. Seeing her actions rendered him momentarily speechless, Christine took over and continued their story, a story she was now wishing she could live through.  
"You will play violin, like my father used to, and I," she yawned quietly," I will sing to you."  
Erik came to his senses, wondering if this all was a dream. When did the 'would' become 'will'?   
"And there will be a garden, where you will grow flowers whose beauty will rival your own. And if you will yearn for warm summer, we will embark on a journey once more, perhaps visit the pyramids in Giza or the Palace of Diocletian in Split…"   
He ceased weaving the tapestry of the story because Christine fell asleep, her warm form pressed firmly to his, resting her head on his shoulder. Erik took her in his arms, cautious not to jolt her awake, and carried her to her room. He arranged the coverlet around her and, before he could think better of it, pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. It cost him great willpower to turn away. Yet as he wanted to leave, he felt something brush soft and warm at his side. He faced the bed once more and let her clutch his hand.   
"Will our story be like that or will it stay only a dream?" Christine asked sleepily.   
"It can be our reality, it that's what you'd desire it to be."  
"I would. Very much."

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing, except this little story. I most certainly do not own the legend of The Phantom of the Opera.
> 
> The title was inspired by a song of the same name, by Epica, because the melody reminded me of the atmosphere I tried to create here.


End file.
